


Look Him Up

by Lenore



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician), Figure Skating RPF
Genre: First Meetings, First Time, M/M, Plot What Plot, Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-16
Updated: 2010-04-16
Packaged: 2017-10-08 23:57:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/80811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenore/pseuds/Lenore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At a benefit where they're performing together, Johnny takes exception to Adam's remark about not being his type. Adam demonstrates what he meant by his promise to look Johnny up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Look Him Up

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written for the [](http://community.livejournal.com/blackdress_adam/profile)[**blackdress_adam**](http://community.livejournal.com/blackdress_adam/) challenge. It would never have been finished without the cheerleading and support of [](http://krisdia.livejournal.com/profile)[**krisdia**](http://krisdia.livejournal.com/) and especially of [](http://no-detective.livejournal.com/profile)[**no_detective**](http://no-detective.livejournal.com/), who very patiently answered all my plaintive "I can't do this" emails, came up with brilliant insights into the characters, and contributed some of my favorite lines of the story. You're the best, bb!

The first time someone asks the question, Adam has no idea what they're talking about. It's the asscrack of dawn, and his ears are still ringing from the red-eye he just got off, and he barely knows his own name, much less who Johnny Weir is. He hunches over his coffee and makes himself smile, however tiredly, at Karina, the perky interviewer, as she gushes on about how she loved him on American Idol. She's wide-eyed and way too alert for this hour of the morning, and Adam's hair sags into his eyes, like it doesn't have the strength to do anything else. He says a little thank you that this is radio and no one can see him.

Gene, the guy in the sound booth, gives them the go-ahead, and the interview swims along pretty much the way these things do. Yes, he has an album out. Yes, he caused quite a stir at the AMA's. No, he doesn't regret a damned thing.

"So." Karina leans in confidentially, and he fully expects the next words out of her mouth to be _Come on, tell the truth, you and that bassist guy are fucking, aren't you?_ Because someone, sometime is going to come right out and ask instead of simply hinting around. But not Karina. She hits him with, "What do you think of Johnny Weir?"

He stares at her blankly, because when was the last time someone actually surprised him with a question? Then he scrambles trying to place the name. Comes up with nothing.

Probably he should just admit to being clueless, but she's watching him expectantly like he _should_ know who Johnny Weir is. "He's, uh, doing some very interesting things." Adam figures that's safely vague enough.

"Yeah. He really is. So, what's your favorite thing about him?" She makes big _tell me more, tell me more_ eyes.

"His, uh, dedication to his art?" Adam's voice lilts up despite his best intentions to sound sure of himself. Belatedly, it occurs to him that he's assuming this Johnny guy is a musician when he could be, like, a gay Bernie Madoff or something. Adam winces at the possibility.

Karina, though, nods along approvingly. "His art, mmm," she says dreamily, like that's code for _yeah, he does have a great ass_.

When she moves on to asking whether Adam thinks his openness hurts his chances of winning over Middle America's record buyers, he's actually grateful to hear the question for once.

* * *

 

There's just something about New York. Adam doesn't know what exactly, but he finds it nearly impossible to avoid getting shit-faced whenever he's in the city. Big drunken apple. Last night, though, after the Rock This Town gig, he outdid even himself, not terribly surprising he guesses, with nostalgia hanging in the air, seeing Allison, seeing _Kris_, which is always equal parts joy and tension.

This morning he slumps in a back booth in the hotel dining room, surrounded by his equally hungover band, all of them as wilted as day-old petals, staring down the remains of their greasy antidote breakfasts. The waitress finally gives up making rounds with the coffee pot and leaves them not one, not two, but three carafes of their own. Adam snags one for himself, because that's what you get for being a rock star, your own personal supply of caffeine. He tries not to think about the fact that he's supposed to sing in a few hours.

Arlette, his publicist, plunks down next to him, lips pinched, her unruly hair even more multi-directional than usual today, never a good sign. "You have no idea who Johnny Weir is, do you?"

"Honey, you should wear red more often. It's so your color."

Arlette rolls her eyes. "Seriously. How can you not even have heard of him?"

Adam shrugs. "I've been a little busy lately." He looks around for reinforcements, because he can't be the only one who doesn't know who Johnny Weir is. Monte is busily texting his wife. LP is involved with his waffles. Tommy has his head down on the table like it's just too heavy to hold up, and Adam has to resist the urge to run his fingers over the exposed nape, something he knows will have Tommy arching like a cat.

Arlette makes an impatient face. "He's going to the Olympics?"

Adam makes an impatient face back at her. _Hello_, has she actually met him? As far as he's concerned, sports are the waterboarding you suffer through before your parents wise up and let you join drama club.

"He's a figure skater?" Arlette prompts.

Of course, he is. "And what does that have to do with me?" Not that he can't guess, but sometimes it's fun to watch Arlette squirm.

"It's just that you and he have some things in—you're both—" She waves her hand.

Adam chooses to interpret this to mean _hot as burning and talented as all hell_ although doubtlessly Arlette was going for something more like _gay as a box of Chihuahuas_.

"I don't think you should take any more questions about him." She presses her lips together very firmly.

Adam laughs. Like he has any power over what people ask him. "Feel free to get right on that, honey."

Arlette nods and gets up and strides off resolutely. Adam's gaze drifts back to Tommy, to that naked place above his collar, and he gives in to the siren call of skin. He smiles when Tommy presses into his touch, making a sound in the back of his throat decidedly like a purr.

* * *

Despite Arlette's best efforts, the question doesn't go away.

Today's interviewer starts every sentence with a giggle, which would be less unnerving if she didn't appear to be in her late thirties. She saves the question for last like some kind of big, gay finale.

"Have you seen Johnny Weir on the Olympics?" She leans in, eyes bright and maybe slightly crazed. Sometimes the ladies enjoy the idea of two guys together a little too much.

For a moment, Adam considers laying the truth on her. _Honey, liking cock really isn't some secret club. We don't all know each other or even have opinions about each other._ But if there's one thing Adam has learned in life, it's when to call bullshit to its face and when to just let it go. A radio interview on Long Island falls decidedly into that latter category.

He puts on his _life, kind of freaky, huh_ smile. "People keep asking me about him, but I don't know much about him. He's not really my type. I mean, I've seen a couple of photos. I should look him up."

At least, Adam thinks he's seen photos. Whatever. The interviewer giggles one last time, and that's it for their time.

Days pass before Adam actually makes good on his promise to put Johnny Weir to the Google test. Probably it would have happened sooner, but there's nothing like the media playing matchmaker to take the fun out of checking out a potentially hot guy.

He reconciles the conflict by calling it "research" and takes a few minutes after catching up on Twitter to hunt down Johnny Weir. Hmm. Okay, so that not his type thing…maybe not _entirely_ true. He does like them pretty and smart and slightly ferocious. Adam gets the sense this boy would cut you with his tiara if you got on the wrong side of him. He clicks through the skating snaps and lingers over the editorial shots. He enjoys the one in heels, but his favorite has to be bare chest, face down, a cheesecake photo complete with fur. He's never seen anyone so fierce while bottoming for the camera.

Maybe he'll look the guy up for real if he ever has a moment.

* * *

Of course, he never does. The Olympics end, and the question stops. Adam is busy shooting videos, making appearances, planning the tour. He forgets all about Johnny Weir. Until Arlette, of all people, brings him up.

She tracks Adam down in the green room before the gig on Regis and Kelly. He can tell from the pinch between her eyebrows that she's come to discuss "serious business." He actually makes air quotes in his head when he thinks the phrase.

"So, there's this 'Environment Is Us' benefit thing."

Adam nods in a tell-me-more way. He's totally in favor of a greener planet.

"It's actually a _skating_ benefit thing," Arlette clarifies.

Adam raises an eyebrow. "They want me to skate?"

She snorts. "No. They have live music played for the performances. Um. Johnny Weir's the headlining skater, and the organizers thought it would be interesting if you two teamed up."

Adam raises both eyebrows.

"I know, I know!" Arlette says in a rush. "I wasn't crazy about you being linked with him in the media. But now I'm thinking we can spin this benefit thing as two artists who are totally committed to their respective crafts coming together in support of a good cause. What do you think?" She sits on the edge of her chair, leaning forward as if trying to sway him with the sheer force of her momentum.

Adam thinks about bare skin and fur.

"Sounds interesting."

"Great! I'll work out the details. I need to give Johnny Weir's people a list of songs to choose from. Here's what I put together." She hands over a piece of paper.

Adam does a quick scan and notices that "For Your Entertainment" isn't listed. He can't help rolling his eyes. There's an unspoken ban on it in front of cameras for fear he'll have another "keyboard malfunction," as Arlette likes to call it. He holds out his hand for her pen, and she grudgingly turns it over.

Tommy leans against the back of Adam's chair, nosily reading over Adam's shoulder.

"I don't want to do any of the Idol stuff." Adam marks those songs off the list. "And not this one either." He adds a dark line through "Fever" and hands it back.

Tommy smiles softly, and Adam runs a hand through Tommy's bangs, smiling back. They're free and easy about the sex they have, but singing that song to anyone else would feel like cheating.

* * *

There's not much time to gear up before the event, only a few weeks, and any time Adam asks Arlette how the planning is going, her answers are vague and distracted. "We're working on it," except once in a fit of exasperation, she blurts out, "Oh my God, he's started calling me _himself_."

Adam grins. He imagines this boy can be quite the handful. "Should I talk to him?"

Arlette shakes her head firmly. "Absolutely not. I'm on top of it. But you'll only have one day to practice, the actual day of the event, so, you know—" Her expression takes a grim _I'm sorry I'm throwing you to the wolves_ turn . "Be prepared? Maybe learn some meditation exercises or something?"

Adam laughs, certain he can handle Johnny Weir without resorting to Zen mantras.

It's another red-eye to the coast for the benefit, and the car plods through traffic made all the more dire by steady drizzle and fog the color of slate. New York takes that whole "April is the cruelest month" thing way too seriously, Adam thinks.

They're almost to the venue, a skating rink in Harlem, when Arlette lets slide, "So, you know how we came to an agreement about the song you'd perform?"

Adam nods. "Strut" seems like a good way to go and not just because he's looking forward to seeing "come on walk for me" set to what he hopes is some truly epic ass-wiggling.

"Well, I'm not a hundred percent sure that took."

Adam almost laughs, but then she really doesn't seem to be kidding. "What does that mean?"

She bites her lip. "He says he has a vision? He's kind of a force of nature?"

The second car pulls in behind them at the venue, and the band spills out of it. Inside, they find the stage already set up on the rink, two platforms with a path of ice running between them, microphones and the band's gear in place. A woman meets them, shakes hands. "I'm Tara, Johnny's agent."

Arlette does their introductions and glances around expectantly, but there's no sign of Johnny anywhere.

"I'll, uh, go hurry him up." Tara's smile is tense around the edges.

When Johnny finally appears, he's wearing the skin-tight black practice outfit that Adam has seen pictures of—_research_—although none of the photos, as pretty as they are, do Johnny justice. His athleticism is far more obvious in person, his muscles lovingly outlined by Lycra. He holds himself like a dancer, with light, straight-spined grace. He has the prettiest skin Adam has seen on a guy, and Adam makes a mental note to compare brands of moisturizer.

They trade names and handshakes. Johnny's grip is firm, his hands big for his size, long-fingered, prominent knuckled. He's minus the smile that Adam has come to look forward to in YouTube clips—yet more research—and Johnny doesn't waste any time getting to the reason behind his discontent.

"I don't know why 'For Your Entertainment' wasn't on the list your people sent over. I'd already choreographed the routine, and there was no time to put anything else together. So." He tilts his chin up at an _I challenge you_ angle.

It's probably not the effect he's going for, but, fuck, that's adorable.

Adam smiles sunnily. "Well, I guess if you'd already choreographed it."

Arlette makes her _I'm about to have a stroke_ face. "But that's not what we—"

"Hey, it was too late to do anything else," Adam tells her breezily, with just a hint of a triumph, because he's sick of "For Your Entertainment" being quarantined. He gives Johnny an appreciative look up and down. Anyway, it really seems the perfect song for the boy. Bring on the choreography.

A delicate pink creeps up Johnny's cheeks at the attention, but the set of his shoulders remains unrelenting. Adam's not sure what to make of that, but whatever, he's got his thing to do. He warms up with his band, and out on the ice Johnny twirls and leaps and stretches his leg up over his head, showing off flexibility that's really quite… Maybe Adam needs to reconsider his stand on sports.

Johnny skates to an abrupt stop. "Well?" It's haughty and accusingly impatient.

Adam smiles. The boy is a moody little enigma, and that's surprisingly amusing. "Let's do it."

Performing is always a two-way street, a give-and-take with the audience, energy for energy, but this is like being caught in the most interesting echo chamber imaginable. Every phrase of music throbs into every move, pulses back into the next line of the song. Johnny makes a gorgeous contradiction, sexy as all hell, but oddly untouchable, like he belongs too much to himself to be possessed by anyone else. Adam has never seen a lock that didn't make him want to be a key.

Johnny zips between the platforms, a teasing streak, head high, back gracefully bowed, his mouth set in a focused pout. Adam resists the urge to turn around and watch, but he can feel the shimmer even without seeing. _Cause it's about to get rough for you_, and Johnny skates back into view, right up to the stage, stopping with a toss of his head that practically screams "toe pick!"

"Isn't this where you usually get carried away?"

It takes Adam a moment to realize it's the same line of the song where he had his quote-unquote _keyboard malfunction_ at the AMA's. The music fumbles to a stop, and Adam can feel his bands' eyes on him, watching, he suspects, with equal parts curiosity and the urge to laugh their asses off.

Adam tilts his head thoughtfully. "Depends. Are you going to do something exciting?"

Johnny pivots, even more pristinely graceful when he's pissed off or challenged or whatever that is, and Adam imagines pulling at him like a string, unraveling all those passionate intricacies.

"Why don't we take it from the top?" Arlette calls out from the sidelines, with a thumb's up and lines of tension crisscrossing her forehead.

Johnny takes up his position, posed like a pinup, and maybe his hips cant a little more dramatically than before, maybe the curve of his ass is aimed a little more firmly in Adam's direction. The music starts, and Adam starts, and Johnny takes off, a whirl of determined sexiness. The rink gives Adam a kind of snow blindness, no landmarks to hold on to, so he can't tell what's different about the routine's trajectory this time. Just suddenly he has a better angle on everything, the curve of Johnny's throat as he tilts his head back, flex of his thigh as he extends his leg, sharp arch of his back that makes Adam think of sweat and bodies and _oh God oh God_.

Adam swivels his hips, to the music, to the pictures in his head, and Johnny comes close enough that Adam can smell him. He bends elegantly into one of those sitting-down-spin things, _right there_, just for Adam, tight black pants stretching over his ass, hugging the curves like the fabric is made of miracles. _Do you know what you got into…_ The lyrics fall right out of Adam's head, and he fumbles his way through the next bar, humming, before giving up altogether.

Johnny untwirls from the spin. The music slows to a stop. Adam can hear Tommy choking out a laugh. When Johnny fixes a look on him, Adam just shrugs, smiling unapologetically. _What do you expect with a view like that?_ Johnny's mouth twitches, but he fights off the smile, and what _is_ that about?

Adam sips from his water bottle, contemplating. "Hey, let's take a break." He climbs down from the platform, careful of the ice, and picks his way over to Johnny. "Can I talk to you?"

The trip back across the rink proves more hazardous than the way there, since the crew took away the handy walkway so Johnny could skate and Adam is a true child of Southern California. No experience with ice outside of a Scotch glass. Johnny skates ahead, looks back, takes in Adam's hobbled turtle progress, and returns.

"Ice senses fear. You have to give it attitude." He takes Adam by the arm, steadying him, and there's something almost courtly about it. That famous Johnny Weir charm.

Adam tips a sideways smile at him. Johnny meets Adam's eye, lingers for a second, and pointedly looks away. Yep, Adam definitely needs to get to the bottom of that.

Solid ground makes Adam send up a mental thank you to God or chance, whoever invented the concept. Johnny moves just as lightly off the ice, the skates not slowing him down in the least. Adam follows him down the hall into a changing room.

"Yes?" Johnny stands apart. The chin tilt is back.

"You did want me here, right?" Adam gives him a small, puzzled smile. "So what's the problem?"

Johnny presses his pretty mouth into a thin line. "I think the question is: why are you here? I'm not your type, I believe you said."

Adam makes a mental note not to talk out of his ass in interviews anymore and crowds Johnny back against the wall. Show, don't tell, isn't that the rule? "I also said I'd look you up." He peels Johnny's pants down his legs in one smooth motion, licks his palm, and wraps it around Johnny's cock.

The wire of tension in Johnny's shoulders stays just as sharp, but he tips his head back and rolls his hips, not averse to this brand of being looked up, apparently. The expression in his eyes is bright and hot, a mix of _more, more_ and indignation, and Adam totally gets that.

"What did you want me to do?" He kisses the words in a line up Johnny's throat. "Actually tell them something?"

Johnny's gaze snaps to Adam's, and, yeah, he gets _that_. Of course, he does. Maybe the two of them have something in common after all, besides a love of things that sparkle.

Something in that realization makes Adam want to do something, give something, and what he has is sex. He twists his wrist sharply on the next downstroke, rubbing at the slit with his thumb. Johnny makes a sound in the back of his throat—not whimpering or begging, more of a demand really—and Adam smiles. There's the wanton little sensualist who loves fur and pretty things and, apparently, being touched just a little bit harder and tighter than Adam generally prefers himself.

Adam pushes at Johnny's shirt until it's bunched beneath his arms to enjoy the view, watching the play of muscle as Johnny pants and wriggles and thrusts. Adam strokes a hand up a beautiful, strong thigh and lightly cups Johnny's balls.

"Oh. Oh." Johnny's voice goes reedy, almost startled that being touched feels so good, making Adam rather wonder about his sex life.

Adam leans close, bites Johnny's ear lobe, and whispers, "You think this is what they were picturing when they asked me about you?"

Johnny snorts through his nose, and Adam tightens his grip, making Johnny whimper and shake and shove his hips more violently.

"Oh, honey. They'd love to see you like this." Johnny's cock, slick and hard, slips in Adam's grip. "They're probably shitting their pants hoping for the secret sex tape." Adam leans in and licks Johnny's ear, and his voice drops, scraping in his throat. "I could probably get a video camera somewhere."

Johnny comes with a sound that's half strangled laugh, half groan, leaning heavily against the wall, chest rising and falling, eyes heavy lidded, lashes brushing his cheeks. His pretty mouth is red where he's bitten it, and Adam thinks about pushing his cock past those lips, the picture that would make.

"You don't have to look so smug." Johnny's eyes snap open. "I'm allowed to get laid twice a year. My foot massager can give me an orgasm."

Adam's laugh gets knocked out of him as Johnny turns the tables, shoving him into the cold cinderblock wall, practically climbing him, hands and mouth and greedy, rutting little body everywhere at once. Adam goes with it, hands in Johnny's hair, because _hot_, and, fuck, if he only got laid a few times a year, he'd be all over the place too.

When Johnny lifts his head from Adam's neck, where he's just been leaving a mark that will probably be visible from outer space, Adam catches the look on Johnny's face. It's not the free and easy expression of someone who came two minutes ago. There's panic mixed in with desperation for more and a little glint of something, hard and resentful, that Adam suspects has to do with Johnny being called the "Adam Lambert of figure skating" a few too many times.

"Hey." He runs his hands over Johnny's back. "Slow down." His thumbs press into taut muscle, trying to ease the tension. "It's not a competition."

Johnny scrabbles at Adam's belt just as frantically, utterly willful.

"Come on, baby," Adam whispers in his ear. "It doesn't have to be like this." He pulls back and smiles. "You know what I've never done? Kissed an Olympian."

There's a little hitch in Johnny's forward momentum, long enough for Adam to slide a hand along Johnny's jaw and tilt his chin up. Johnny tastes like lip gloss, and Adam traces the bow shape of his mouth with his tongue, sucks on Johnny's bottom lip. Yeah, he definitely needs to fuck that mouth. The stubborn tension flows out of Johnny at last, and he melts into Adam's arms, kissing back in an eager flurry, hungry and impatient, like he might not get another chance at this anytime soon.

Adam wonders just how much Johnny has missed out on with his crazy training schedule and the even crazier "no sex" thing, wonders how many days in bed it would take to make up for all that deprivation. The word _project_ floats through his head.

He slides his hands along Johnny's back, down and down, to firm curves, and, fuck yes, now that's an _ass_. Adam cups it, squeezing a little. He could get used to having sex with world-class athletes in locker rooms. "You are so fucking gorgeous."

Johnny's mouth curves up at the corner, a mischievous little smirk. "Yeah? You're not so bad yourself." He finishes opening Adam's fly with a flourish of his wrist. "But you're wrong about one thing." His knees hit the floor. "It's always a competition."

It takes Johnny a couple of tries to find an angle that works, and even then, he's breathing hard through his nose and fighting his gag reflex. Spit slides down his chin, making him scowl. Adam thrusts his fingers into Johnny's hair. The sight of him working so hard to take Adam's cock is just filthy-hot, and maybe Adam should wait a little longer for Johnny to find his groove, but God, he's just _got_ to fuck that mouth. He keeps a hand in Johnny's hair and one on his cheek, thumb absently stroking the place where mouth meets cock. He stares and stares at the soft pink stretch of lips. If Johnny really only does this a few times a year, that's fucking criminal.

Adam rubs his fingers, hard, over Johnny's scalp, raking his nails, and the low moan Johnny makes feels like a fucking sex toy at work on Adam's dick. He tightens his grip on Johnny's hair, and he could ride like this, cock sliding into wet, hot, tight, all night. He could. That's what he thinks until he realizes that Johnny has his own cock in hand again, jerking off like all he's ever wanted is Adam's dick in his mouth. Adam comes in long, hard pulses.

When Adam opens his eyes, there's come splashed on Johnny's chin, his cheeks, the tip of his nose, where he wasn't quite able to swallow fast enough. His lips are still shiny with spit. Johnny makes a face and swipes the back of his arm at the mess, and Adam is surprised he doesn't actually say "ew." The thought makes Adam smile.

"Hey." He hooks a hand around Johnny's shoulder and pulls him to his feet and finishes the clean up himself, with fingers and lips, and then his tongue in Johnny's mouth, long and slow, licking away the last taste of his come. Johnny makes a little whimper and presses against Adam and kisses back as frantically as if he hadn't just come twice.

If ever a person needed to get fucked until he couldn't stand up, it's this boy. That's what Adam thinks. His hands gravitate back to Johnny's ass as he mulls over the possibilities.

Johnny glances over his shoulder with a rueful little grimace. "Yes, thank you. I do know how huge my ass is."

"Baby, that is so not the word I would use for it." Adam gives the perfect curves a few appreciative strokes before leaning close and whispering in Johnny's ear, starting with _luscious_ and _magnificent_ and quickly degenerating into all-out filth.

When Johnny finally pulls away, he's smiling. "As much as I hate to break this up, we should probably get back out there before someone comes looking for us."

Adam gives him one last pat on the ass. "We can always finish this tonight after the show." He winks.

Warmth flashes in Johnny's eyes, and that's definitely not no. "I should warn you that my coach will probably hunt you down and—" Johnny waves his hand. "Do something very _Russian_ and possibly feudal."

Adam grins. "I'll tell my security to be on the look out." He nods his head toward the door. "Go on. I'll give you a head start."

Not that they're going to fool anybody about what they've been doing, but whatever, they don't have to be completely indiscreet, either. It's not like Johnny is out, not exactly, and Adam…well, he's not actually trying to give Arlette an aneurysm.

Adam whiles away the few minutes sending a flurry of texts, rearranging the stuff he's got for tomorrow, because _project_. By the time he heads back out to the rink, Tommy has acquired a pair of skates from somewhere, and Johnny is holding him by the hands, showing him how to do a figure eight. Or possibly just how to keep from falling on his ass. Adam loiters by the boards, watching as Tommy lurches forward and Johnny wraps an arm around his waist to steady him. It's almost too much pretty in one place. _Almost_. Yeah. Adam's thinking this should be a group project maybe.

Johnny catches Adam's eye and smirks as if he knows exactly what Adam is thinking. Adam smiles back. Maybe he's becoming a sports fan, of all things.

 

* * *

Bonus Johnny pics!

Here are the two photos referenced in the story for those who haven't seen them.

____spacer____

____spacer____

____spacer____

____spacer____


End file.
